


the land of gods and monsters

by always_a_birthday_girl



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mortal, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25667704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/always_a_birthday_girl/pseuds/always_a_birthday_girl
Summary: Calling them estranged would be putting it generously, but still, when his long-distant foster brother arrives on his doorstep, Thor doesn't think twice about welcoming him back. He doesn't care why Loki came. He only wants him to stay.
Relationships: Loki/Thor (Marvel)
Comments: 50
Kudos: 102





	1. Chapter 1

There are plenty of bigger towns out there, places with better fishing or fairer climates, but Thor has always preferred Aslaugstrand. When Father first moved them here from Stavanger, Thor fell in love, and his heart has stayed here ever since. No matter how many beds he's claimed since then, returning feels like coming home.

"Your father told me you were a sailor," Hedda says, leaning on the side of the pine-green truck while Thor checks under the hood. "That where you lost the eye?"

It's not the least tactful way to bring it up, and Thor's pretty easygoing these days, so he doesn't think less of her for asking. He'd be curious, too.

"I've always had good sailing." He slams the hood closed, brushing off his hands like he's done more than poke around the engine and pretend he knows what he's looking for. "It's when I set foot on land that the trouble begins."

She looks interested, and another time, he might have let the curiosity on her broad face draw him in. There's nothing he loves quite as much as a good tale, whether he's the one telling it or hearing it. But the trappings of that particular one are heavy, and it's late in the afternoon. He's yet to see the house. He slaps the side of the truck to remind them both of why they're here.

"It's a fair price." He isn't sure this is true. He's never owned a vehicle: on the rig he didn't need one, and in the city there was always the bus. But Aslaugstrand is spread out over a sloping cliff overlooking the sea, a town that wends between rises and crags and would take an hour to cross on foot. "Are you willing to part with it today?"

He takes out his checkbook, resting it on the hood in anticipation of her agreement.

"I'll bring out the deed." She slowly turns to head back into the butcher's, her hesitation speaking volumes. And he knows he doesn't look like much, not in his flannel shirt and dirty jeans, not with the twenty extra pounds he's put on since the rig, but it's still a little insulting because she knows his family has money. It's the one thing the Gautrssen's aren't lacking in.

He taps his pen against the checkbook, eyeing the full amount scrawled out in his irritable handwriting. Something about the sharp, black lines is painful to look at.

Hedda returns with the paperwork, still looking like she expects him to bolt.

"I'll need to see your license, and you'll have to take it to be registered at the municipal office by the end of the week. That's in the town square, on the other side of the community center."

"I remember. Thank you." Thor digs out his restricted license. After he lost half his field of vision, he hadn't seen the point in getting one, but now he's thankful Mother insisted. He folds the deed and slides it into his back pocket, giving Hedda the check in exchange.

"So, you'll be looking for work in town?" It's a question, but only technically. "That's good. My nephew could use an extra pair of hands on his farm, if you're interested."

Thor isn't opposed to work. He's manned oil rigs up and down the coast of Rogaland for the last five years. He still gives her nothing but a noncommittal smile as he collects the truck keys.

"And your siblings?" Hedda prods, possibly wanting to gather as much gossip from their interaction as she can, and possibly just genuinely curious—as anyone would be—about the wayward Gautrssen children. "Your brother, your sister?"

Sunny as the day is, Thor goes as cold as the key pressed in his palm. "My sister will not be joining us."

And he doesn't remember when Loki stopped answering his calls.

The family home hasn't changed much since he was thirteen. They lived there with his grandfather for a year before Father had enough and took them back to the city. Father and Bestefar fought a lot, and Hela was unhappy—but, then again, Hela's always been unhappy.

Thor turns on the radio as he drives, humming along to songs he only knows half the words to. It's a few kilometers before he pulls into the narrow driveway beside the house. On the other side of the gravel road is a rickety-looking guardrail, the only barrier between the side of the road and the dropoff to the sea. Mother was so terrified he'd fall that she'd made him promise not to show off around the rail.

Loki dared him to walk it, once.

He leans against the open cab door. One side of the house is polluted with neighbors, but when he turns his head to check out the other, there's only a stubby row of trees following the curve of the road up the rise. He's so used to being out on the waves, staring at the shore, that seeing things from the reverse side is jarring. Was the view always so clear?

A sleek, black sports car struggles up the road, and Thor watches it with the detached but avid interest of anyone witnessing an idiot test front wheel drive so daringly. It isn't until those front wheels begin to turn, parking the car on the dead grass next to Thor's truck, that he realizes he has a visitor.

The _clunk_ of the door opening is like a gong in Thor's ears, although the noise should have been drowned out by the wind and the surf and the chattering birds. He shields his eye from the sun and backs up out of instinct as a slender man in black steps out of the car. And then.

He wastes a moment in shock and denial before stumbling over his own feet in his haste to crush his younger brother in a bear hug. His elbow hits the door on his blind side, the _thunk_ undercutting the tense moment. He might as well be hugging a bundle of sticks, all poking and jabbing and resistance, but Thor doesn't care.

"Jesu—" Loki lets out a stream of curses, pounding uselessly on Thor's shoulders. "Thor, let me down!"

His voice still goes shrill when he gets upset. He used to be self-conscious about that. Thor sets him down, takes him in. Thinks there's very little Loki ought to be self-conscious about, looking like that.

"You've—" he almost says  _filled out_ , which would certainly be a mistake, "—taken to wearing suits."

Loki thumbs the button of his green vest. "It's only for the funeral. I'd wrinkle it beyond repair if I packed it in a suitcase."

He has a thousand questions, and they all fight to be first out of his mouth. No one told him to expect Loki. They _all_ should have told him to expect Loki. "Are you still in Stavanger?"

Loki sighs. "Perhaps we can do this somewhere other than the front yard?"

"Right. Of course." Thor reaches behind him like the truck door's still open, which it's not, and fumbles for the handle like it was what he meant to do all along. "I haven't been inside yet. No idea what it's like."

"Musty and cluttered, I'd imagine." Loki takes an overnight bag from the passenger side of the car: he's staying, then. At least for the night. Thor could do a backflip. Well . . . he's physically incapable of such a thing, but if he weren't. He takes the bag from Loki, batting away his brother's attempts to reclaim it, and retrieves his own things from the cab.

Loki falls into step behind him, all but silent on the dirt that crunches under Thor's boots. "You aren't honestly going to live here, are you?"

Thor has to elbow the door a bit to get in, and a waft of stale air hits them both: a winning combination of old man and pine cleaner, at least ten degrees warmer than the day outside.

Loki sniffs. "Like I said."

The entryway is just as Thor remembers, with a door down to the basement and stairs that lead up to the living room. Unlike when they were kids, however, there's barely enough room for them to fit side by side. Thor toes off his boots as best he can and takes the carpeted stairs two at a time.

"Open a damn window," Loki calls after him, caught up in untying his dress shoes.

Thor tosses their bags onto Bestefar's lime green sofa. The room might as well have been lifted straight from his memories—the crocheted afghans, out-of-date television set, rickety bookcase crammed with encyclopedias and magazines. It's like he's stepped through time.

He goes around the living room, opening all the windows before venturing into the kitchen. It smells vaguely of rancid fruit, which isn't promising, but when he checks the fridge, he thinks there are a few things that can be salvaged. Pickles are good forever, and it takes a while for cheese to go bad.

By the time he heads back into the living room, Loki's gotten his shoes off and made his way up. He's rummaging through the hall closet for a free hanger to put his suit jacket; as Thor watches, he hangs up not only his jacket, but vest and pants, leaving him in a silky, black t-shirt and underwear.

A little too late, Thor looks away.

"I wonder if the shower works." Loki brushes by Thor to reclaim his bag on the sofa, unzipping it to pull out a change of clothes, apparently indifferent to Thor's discomfort. "What are the odds of me being eaten by a stray swamp creature, do you think?"

"Depends on the state of the shower." Thor nails his gaze to the wall. Nonchalance is the key; nonchalance, and a fascination with ecru paint. "I suppose you want me to check?"

"Oh,  _would_ you?" Loki collapses on the sofa, nesting between the bags, and kicks his feet up on the coffee table. His legs are still skinny, but ropy with muscle now, and Thor doesn't realize he's made a mistake until Loki flicks a toe and—shit.

He meets Loki's eyes.

Loki raises his eyebrows.

Thor flees down the hall. It's a little too dark and just as musty as Loki predicted, and he makes a mental note to change the overhead light as soon as possible. He passes Bestefar's bedroom and pauses long enough to shut the door.

The bathroom is next, with the room he used to share with Loki at the end of the hall. It seems impossibly cramped now, barely enough room to walk between the twin beds, but he doesn't remember feeling uncomfortable. He used to reach across the gap and touch Loki's hand, just to be sure he was still there.

Thor shakes off the memory.

The water in the tub splutters out reluctant and cold at first, but eventually warms up. When it begins to steam, Thor deems it acceptable and inspects the rest of the bathroom. He finds no evidence of spiders, dust, or dead body parts, and the towels under the cupboards have kept better than the food in the kitchen. He lays one on the closed toilet lid.

For a moment, the patter of water and vague scent of iron sends him back to the rig. He can almost hear the faint, ever-present creaking of metal over the steady stream of the tap. Running water has a way of playing tricks with his ears. He fingers his eye patch, waiting for the phantom pain. Funny how it all overlaps in his mind.

"Don't tell me you're coming in, as well." The doorframe creaks. Loki, apparently tired of waiting, leans there giving Thor _the eye_ , and it's just. It's a lot.

Thor rises too quickly, inner ear spinning as his body tries to calibrate to a sea that isn't there. Sometimes, his land legs still desert him. "I was just taking a minute."

"Because a perfunctory check of a six-by-six room is so tiring."

"I also ran the water." Thor gestures to the shower. "You're welcome."

Loki pinches his nose. His expression—exasperation mixed with barely masked disdain—is nowhere near as unfamiliar as Thor would like. "Out. Now."

Thor scuttles out, and Loki slams the door behind him in an unnecessary show of bad temper.

"Yell if you need anything," Thor calls through the wood. "Or if you see any ghosts."

Something thumps against the door, and he gets the distinct feeling Loki just threw a towel at it. He waits for the sharp retort, but nothing comes, so he ambles upstairs to settle in.

Continuing the illusion of timelessness, he could swear Mother just stepped out of his parents' old room when he enters. He even imagines he catches a trace of her perfume. He opens the single narrow window, even though it's sea facing and the breeze slices like a lance.

He helped Mother take her clothes out of the dresser in the corner, fold them nicely and pack them up to leave. He was fourteen; he still had two eyes. If he forgets to focus, he can almost see her now—a mirage superimposed over the present, looking far calmer than she had any right to be with Hela raging next door.

He reverses the move now, pulling his own clothes from his bags and storing them in the dusty top drawer. He can still remember the glint of Mother's rings in the sunlight across the bed as she smoothed each piece of clothing to satisfaction before packing it away. He's far less careful as he shoves his army of flannel shirts and heavy jeans into the drawer.

Loki calls for him then, and Thor jumps, clipping the corner in his haste to get downstairs. His depth perception is more or less shot, but it's only really a problem when he hurries or isn't familiar with his surroundings or—in this case—both.

He finds Loki jamming his dirty underwear and t-shirt into his overnight bag, right next to the clean ones. His black hair is damp, the ends curling where they meet his neck and jaw, and there's a small ring of wet cotton where his hair overlaps his white t-shirt.

"Have you looked in the fridge?"

"There's not much." Thor tries not to eye him too obviously. That wet spot is getting to him. "Maybe in the cupboards, there might be some cans or something . . ."

Loki straightens, hands on his lower back like he's a middle-aged woman starting to realize her limits. His hips curve with the motion. "Should we order in?"

"Do they do that here?"

"I . . . don't know." Loki looks taken aback by his own ignorance. "It seems like they'd know if we called."

Thor eyes the ecru paint. "Called who?"

"The food place . . . ?" Loki gestures vaguely, and then abandons the thought, rolling his eyes. "Let's check for cans, then."

Smirking, Thor follows him into the kitchen.

"Don't look so smug," Loki says, yanking open a cupboard at random. "I can't know everything."

Thor straddles a kitchen chair. "You've always had me believe otherwise."

"You haven't gotten any less insufferable." Loki's voice becomes more muffled as he ventures further into the cupboard, half his body disappearing into it as he drops to his knees. And suddenly, Thor understands why Loki's jeans are so tight. "I swear, they invented whole new words for annoying just to describe you."

Thor is the first to admit he's a few drunken disorderlies shy of gentleman status, but he's never been an ogler. Sif drilled him well on that one, and up until now he hasn't had a problem minding his manners. He's been known to compliment more overt flirters, but for the most part, he tries to pretend that he doesn't notice if someone else's body is doing something that makes _his_ body do an internal happy dance.

So he's going to stop staring at Loki's ass any minute now. The second the waistband seam stops following the m-curve over Loki's ass so perfectly. As soon as those pockets stop hugging his tight rear the way Thor's hands—

Loki wiggles— _dear God—_ and pulls out of the cupboard, slamming a few cans onto the countertop and ducking back for a box of pasta.

Thor kind of wants to die. "So. Um. Not that I mind, but what are you doing here?"

Loki rolls to his feet, resting his hands on his hips. Sans pasta. "Mother didn't tell you?"

"Mother never tells me anything."

Loki runs his hand through his black hair, and for a moment, Thor can see him at sixteen: tired, exasperated, trying to explain the Binomial Theorem for the third time while the kitchen clock ticked past midnight.

"What did you do?" Thor knows that sigh, the weight of it, how it always escapes when Loki is deciding whether or not to lie. And he knows the odds are good that Loki won't tell him the truth anyway, because, like Mother, he always leaves out the important bits.

"Nothing." Loki turns back to the cupboard, squatting to retrieve the pasta box again. He keeps one hand on the counter for balance, and Thor follows the swell of his shoulder for a hypnotizing second before remembering he's supposed to be asking pressing questions.

"Well, you didn't come here for nothing."

Loki straightens, slamming the box on the counter. "Maybe I came for  _you_ ."

It's probably meant to be a cutting remark, aimed at Thor's conscience, but the words ring so false that Thor nearly laughs. Six years of missed calls hang between them, and it's hard to imagine a more ludicrous lie.

Loki meets his eye, daring him to challenge the statement. Thor lets it go. He might not believe the answer, but he's in a good enough mood to indulge it.

"Well, here I am," he says, rougher than he intends. "I hope I don't disappoint."

"Daily," Loki replies, expression inscrutable. "Now, are you going to help me or just watch?"


	2. Chapter 2

Loki chooses to sleep on the ground floor, so Thor trudges up to Mother and Father's bedroom alone. He never honestly thought Loki would subject himself to Hela's room, but it's still lonely to have the floor to himself.

He collapses on the bed without changing the sheets, which is almost as gross as Loki shoving his dirty clothes in with his clean ones, and God. Mother didn't raise them in a barn, honestly, it's just that growing up turned out to be a fair bit messier than either of them expected.

Thor's so tired, his thoughts are turning sideways. He wriggles out of his jeans without getting up, his weight shaking the old, boxy bed, and then he slumps, devoid of energy.

He tries to remember the last time he saw his brother before this, and can't.

How many different versions of their reunion has he pictured, lying in his berth on the  _Statesmen_ or put up in a dingy motel room with Bryn? Some violent, some emotional, some so delightful banal that one of his shipmates was obligated to toss a pillow at him and shout that he'd better wipe that stupid, blissful look off his face: Thor thought he'd run through them all. 

This never made the list, but then again, Thor would've been more surprised if it had. He always knew reality would prove to be different from his many, many daydreams. The fantasies were just something to keep his mind occupied while he waited.

He runs through the highlights, mind spinning while his limbs turn to lead, and the next thing he knows, he's waking up and he's had the nightmare.

It's  _the_ nightmare, the only one his mind thinks is worth having, or so it seems. 

He's clammy with sweat and for a minute he's sure someone just left the room, that he needs to call out to them before they get too far away. He doesn't remember deciding to sleep, and his body's stiff as he rolls upright. He almost loses his balance as he grapples on the floor for his discarded pants. He finds them, patting his pockets until he reaches his cell phone. The glowing screen informs him it's just past four in the morning.

He should go back to sleep, but the mattress is hard and he's sticky and it's altogether an unpleasant idea. He switches on the bedside light to gather a change of clothes. Even though it's been years, he still has to take a few moments to focus his eye, his brain scrambling to get the message that there's only one optic nerve to go around. Waking up is always the worst.

Downstairs, he lingers in the doorway of the bathroom. The light creeps down the hall, getting fainter and fainter as it goes, but still strong enough to illuminate part of Loki's chosen bed. He used to insist on the door staying open: this part of him, at least, hasn't changed. Thor can see the dark pool of Loki's hair across the pillow. The other bed is empty, of course.

He stares at it for an inexcusably long time, the form becoming hazy and grayish in the dark.

He's used to showering in a hurry, usually while gulping down a cup of coffee to combat the near-frigid water, and Bryn screaming at him to hurry up or she'll jump in with him, so having hot water and no time limit is luxurious. He makes a point to stretch out the shower until his skin is wrinkled and reddened, every layer of dirt scrubbed away. He finds a few new freckles on the underside of his belly. Exciting stuff.

Then he makes tea and cleans out the kitchen, filling two garbage bags with inedible food and useless gadgets. He sets aside a pile of things that might be useful, if he knew what they actually did, to ask Loki about when he wakes up. An hour into his quest, his brother shuffles into the kitchen, sleepy-eyed and combing clumsy fingers through his bedhead.

"Don't you know what fucking time it is?"

"Couldn't sleep." Thor slurps his second cup of green tea. "Tea?"

"It's five-thirty, you monster." Loki rubs his eyes, slightly more alert. "Where's the coffee?"

So Thor makes him coffee, and they greet the dawn by hauling trash to the curb and waving to the elderly woman who lives next door, and seems inordinately fascinated by two grown men—one in his boxers—wearing rubber gloves and bandannas.

"I get the feeling we're going to be the subject of gossip," Thor tells Loki in an undertone, as they make their way back inside.

For some reason, that makes Loki laugh.

They can't decide if the eggs have kept over the last month, and instead of risking it, Thor suggests they go out.

"To breakfast?" Loki's in his room, rummaging through his overnight bag for a change of clothes. Other than the suit, he doesn't seem to have much. Thor's trying not to feel squirrelly about that. "Together?"

"It's not that strange." Thor eases into the bathroom, pulling his hair back with a rubber band, undoing it, and trying again. "I'm told people do it all the time."

He combs his fingers through his beard, which grew in scruffy at first but somehow—for reasons he can't fathom—fleshed out into something thick and hearty after only a few months on the rig. It's the only part of him that came away better off than it was before.

"People who  _like_ each other." Back turned in the barest hint of modesty, Loki strips off the shirt he slept in and shimmies into another pair of skinny jeans that will doubtless be the reason for Thor's third, or fourth, heart attack. 

Thor crosses his arms. Paint. His eyes are on the _paint._ "We like each other."

"Half right." Loki finishes dressing and saunters out of the room, coming to stand next to Thor. He looks up, sighs. "Have it your way. I could murder a bacon plate, anyway."

"That's the spirit."

They rattle through the town in Thor's new truck, and he remembers that he's supposed to take it to the city office and he mentions it to Loki as something they might do after breakfast, and instead of pitching a fit like he might have when they were teenagers, Loki just says, "Hmm," and looks out the window like his mind's on bacon. So that's okay.

The sea sparkles in the morning sun. There are a couple eateries in Aslaugstrand, but Thor's favorite is a diner close to Hedda's butcher shop. He and Loki are the first customers, but the waitress is friendly and the food can't compare. Both of them order second plates, demolishing them in a silent, and winnerless, eating contest.

Loki accompanies Thor to register the truck, and then to pick up groceries for the house.

Thor finds himself stealing glances whenever he can get away with it. He's frustrated by the curve of his memories, the way some things come back to him so quickly while others remain elusive—did Loki always slouch like that, or was it something he's learned over the years? What about the way he pushes his hair behind his ear, fingers pinching at it for just a second before he lets it fall again?

Loki inspects a lime before placing it back on a pile of identical brethren, and catches Thor's eye. "Something I said?"

It takes a moment for Thor to realize it's a joke, a dry-as-dust one since they haven't said a word since breakfast.

He points at Loki. "You still aren't funny."

"The sense of humor is genetic." Another joke; he's on form today. Thor probably shouldn't laugh, but he does. He can't help it.

Curiously, Loki looks relieved.

They finish shopping and pile the groceries in the bed of the truck, where Thor assures Loki they won't lose any stray tomatoes or rolling turnips. Loki hums doubtfully, but doesn't argue, probably saving it for an I-told-you-so later. When they pull up to the house with no losses and zero vegetable fatalities, Thor has to physically bite his tongue to keep from rubbing the victory in Loki's face.

His smirk probably gives him away, though.

He makes it until lunch before asking. They've just put away most of the groceries and drawn up a list of rooms that need major scrubbing—all of them, basically—and Loki's making sandwiches. Thor's never thought the sight of Loki holding a knife would inspire an emotion more complicated than panic, but it's downright endearing to have someone make food for him after all these years.

"How long?"

Loki's knife hits the chopping board with a _clunk_ , and he begins to spread tomatoes on the bread. "I'm not a mind reader, Thor."

"How long are you staying?"

"Ah." Cheese, cucumbers, lettuce: he'd better get around to meat, at some point. Thor can't live on vegetables alone. Loki's hips sway as he shifts his weight to a single leg, doing terribly wonderful things to the shape of his ass and the state of Thor's blood pressure. "How long do you want me?"

That question is most certainly a trap.

"You must have had a time frame in mind." Thor is sorting through the cupboards, trying to find a system he likes, but he sets his hands on his thighs for a minute so he can give Loki a questioning look. "A job you need to get back to, perhaps?"

Loki shrugs.

"A shrug isn't an answer."

"And a rubber band isn't a hair tie." Loki reaches over and tugs at it, grinning when Thor winces at the pull on his hair. "Are you going to spend the afternoon on your knees, or would you like your sandwich now?"

Thor scrambles to his feet. "You can't distract me with food."

"Don't be ridiculous." Loki holds up the plate, a faint smile crossing his face when Thor takes it. "Of course I can."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I'm not sorry I wrote this, but it's gonna be really outta left field in places. Thanks for stopping by :)_


	3. Chapter 3

They moved three times, as children. Once from Bergen, where Loki was adopted, to Stavanger. A big city to a big city. Then to tiny Aslaugstrand when Thor was thirteen, and back to Stavanger a year later. It was never _not_ a traumatic event, not with Hela's bad moods rolling over them like thunderheads and Mother's desperate attempts at nonchalance as her daughter raged downstairs.

Before leaving Bestefar's, Hela came at Father with a stapler, and Mother forced Thor and Loki upstairs, closing them in her bedroom closet. He faces it now while he waits to sleep, remembering how warm Loki's breath had been on his face. How Loki's hands had shook when Thor grabbed them. He'd been scared—they'd both been scared—but they'd been together, and somehow, that had been the only thing that mattered.

He can't really see the closet in the dark, even with the hall light. He can't really see _anything_ in the dark, now. It's hard not to resent this house for that, even if the house wasn't the one who dangled a butter knife over his left eye.

He thinks about how many times he dialed Loki's number, again and again over the years, because he truly believed they were brothers, no matter what they'd gone through. It hadn't been a surprise when he tried one day and found the number disconnected, but it had still hurt.

Thor rolls over to face the opposite side of the room, and doesn't sleep.

*

The day of the funeral doesn't dawn so much as sluggishly creep up on them, the sky thunderhead gray until finally—just before they're about to leave—giving in to a downpour. It's miserable, and fitting, and Thor would like nothing more than to stay home.

Loki frowns out the front door at the rain, fiddling with his suit jacket. Thor goes in search of an umbrella.

"Did Father say he was coming?" Loki calls out, once Thor is well and truly out of sight. His tone is controlled, but Thor isn't fooled. He knows exactly what Loki sounds like when he's trying his damndest not to care.

He finds an umbrella in the closet and heads back to the entryway. "Why on earth wouldn't he?"

Loki shoots him a sour look.

Thor pops open the umbrella in the small space, miscalculating how wide it will spread. Loki yelps, slamming himself against the wall and swearing as one of the umbrella spokes catches him under the eye.

"Shit—Loki—" Thor tosses the umbrella aside at once. "I'm sorry."

He grabs Loki by the chin, tilting his head to get a better look at the damage, and Loki squirms. He doesn't like being confined. Never has. But Thor's more occupied with making sure he didn't accidentally take out an eye or something—he doesn't think he'd be able to live the irony down. It's funny, right up until it really fucking isn't.

Loki glowers. "What kind of idiot opens an umbrella inside?"

"I—I figured I'd be prepared," Thor says. It's kind of nostalgic, the way Loki makes him feel like a moron simply for being alive. "I'm sorry. Let me bandage that."

Loki wipes the scratch with his thumb, examining the bead of blood that results. Thor's heart skips a beat, and he can't bring himself to back away. He inhales Loki's cologne, his coffee breath, the warmth rolling off his skin in response to the damp day. And he thinks—but maybe he's wrong—that Loki leans into him for a moment, too.

Loki pushes Thor away and takes the umbrella, which fell on the stairs. He closes it, tapping Thor on the arm with the folded end. "I think I'll handle this from now on."

The stately cathedral is inland, toward the east side of town, impossible to miss above the two-and-three story buildings. Thor's only been there a handful of times, most of them when Bestefar was still alive. It was never this crowded. Half the town is in the parking lot, and the assembly of cars is so thick, Loki has to circle twice before finding somewhere to park.

He's allowed to hold the umbrella for Loki as they walk into the church, only because he's taller and it makes more sense. His shoulder might get a little wet because he's worried about keeping Loki dry, but who's going to notice?

They slog through the entryway, leaving the umbrella with a sea of others to dry, and pass by the vault of holy water by the sanctuary door. Loki dips his fingers in, blesses them both although Thor doesn't practice any longer, and then they're inside the vaulted, overwhelming chamber.

Thor instinctively presses closer to Loki at the sight of the crowd. Loki hums under his breath, a comforting intonation with no particular meaning or words, just the reminder that Thor isn't alone.

"Boys!"

The hushed exclamation comes from Thor's blind side; he turns, almost bumping into his brother in the process. Mother hurries toward them from a side pew, her still-blond hair brilliant against the sea of mourning clothes.

It's not like Thor _hasn't_ visited Mother, but it's been long enough that he's awkward and a little ashamed as she approaches, grabbing their hands as if they're still young children.

"It's so good to see you both," she says, apparently oblivious to his discomfort. Ever the diplomat. "Even under these circumstances."

"You, too," Thor says softly, shoulders hunched. Loki shuffles closer to him, their elbows touching, and Mother smiles.

"You two really haven't changed." She turns her attention to Loki, notices his scratch, and frowns. "Were you fighting?"

"Of course not." Thor leans in to kiss his mother. "We _have_ grown up a little."

"He attacked me with an umbrella," Loki says.

Thor shoots him an irritated look, but before they can start, Frigga drags them to the front of the church, ushering them into the second row of pews. Father is sitting in the first, as close to the dais as he can get without being one of the priests. He doesn't turn around when Thor slides in behind him.

Loki sits between Thor and Frigga, and Thor presses his arm against Loki's, returning the show of support.

The service drags on as reluctantly as the day outside, dreary and maudlin. Father is one of the pallbearers, and he doesn't look their way as he helps carry the casket down the center aisle. Loki pulls at Thor's elbow because Mother is pulling at his, and all three of them duck out of the sanctuary and into a small, tertiary hall that Thor assumes is typically for clergy members. It has the absent-minded layout of a place not meant to be used by the public.

Mother dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief. "There's going to be a small gathering after all this, back at the hotel. Is that where you're staying, too?"

The question is directed at Loki, who shakes his head without offering an explanation.

"Come anyway," she implores. "You too, Thor. There's so much of your lives that I've missed."

Thor almost asks her whose fault that is, and Loki snags his arm.

"We'll be there," he says, and steers Thor away. They collect the umbrella from the foyer, Loki threading his arm through Thor's as they exit the building.

Thor looks down at him questioningly, although Loki's eyes are trained ahead and his expression doesn't change.

"Your sleeve was wet through the whole service," he says, and tugs Thor closer under the umbrella.

Thor bends his head until his nose grazes the top of Loki's head and the musty stench of rain is overcome by the scent of Loki's hair gel. He wants to go home _now._

Mother and Father's hotel sits by the highway twenty minutes beyond Aslaugstrand, a queen abandoned by her compatriots, surrounded by freshly planted trees and not-yet-fleshed-out shrubbery. It smacks of old money and new architecture. The parking lot could hold three dozen trucks the size of Thor's, and never would, because the sort of people who stay here don't drive trucks.

Mother is already in the expensively decorated event room when they arrive. Caterers are just beginning to set out platters of finger food, but the tables and chairs haven't been arranged yet. She directs them to fix this while she sees about the lighting.

Loki loosens his tie and arches an eyebrow at Thor. "Haven't done this since your sixteenth, I think."

"Can't say I missed it," Thor replies, and they set about hauling the tables into a neat formation and unstacking the chairs. He strips off his suit jacket almost immediately. He's almost twice Loki's size; he breaks a sweat when he _looks_ at a chore wrong.

He has to stop two more times, once to roll up his sleeves and once to unbutton his dress shirt to mid-chest. He pretends not to notice Loki smirking in the background.

"Need a break?" his brother finally taunts, and Thor wrestles him into a headlock to prove he's got energy to spare. Naturally, this is the moment Mother returns from negotiating with the lighting technicians.

"Thor!" She fixes him with a stern look, and no matter how old he is now, it makes him freeze. "I raised you better. And what's with . . ." She trails off, taking in his disheveled state before transferring her disapproving gaze to Loki, who's less rumpled but still has an angry scratch on his cheek and completely ruined hair.

Thor slowly releases his brother.

Mother points to the door. "Bathroom. The mourning party will be here at any moment."

Thor reclaims his jacket and they scramble to do as she says.

*

By the time they're done cleaning up, the graveside service has obviously concluded, people trickling into the event hall in tightly knit clumps, some blank-faced or red-eyed, others simply tired. Thor can name a handful of distant relatives, but no more. He recognizes his uncles but pretends he's too absorbed in talking to Loki to greet them.

"You're horrible," Loki observes.

"I hate socializing."

"But you love talking to people." His brother frowns, drawing him closer as a caterer maneuvers past, balancing a tray of fancy crackers. "You start conversations in grocery lines."

"It's different. You're better at this sort of thing." Thor ducks his head on instinct, and the tray soars over it harmlessly. "We made an appearance. We should leave."

Loki looks on the verge of agreeing when Mother approaches from Thor's bad side once more, seizing them both by the elbows.

"There you are. No food? It's good. You should eat." She rests her head, briefly, on Thor's forearm. "And once you've gotten your plates, come join us. Your sister's here."

Thor's blood runs cold.

Frigga, oblivious to the gross implosion of his world, ushers them to the refreshment table and then points out where they're to sit. She makes Loki promise to take more than a few cubes of cheese before swanning back to the ninth circle of Hell.

Thor doesn't look. Doesn't dare. Loki, by contrast, can't seem to stop craning his neck.

"Dear God," he murmurs. There's no fear in his voice, only curiosity, but Thor is spooked enough for the both of them. He stands far too close to Loki. He could drag them both out of here. He's pretty sure Loki wouldn't even fight him.

Stomach in knots, he reaches for a paper plate, hyper-aware of its flimsiness. He's not sure what he's picking out until Loki seizes his wrist, and his gaze focuses on the pastry. It's a little too pale in the middle, and crispy around the edges, but food is food, right?

"You can't go over there." Loki's fingers are viselike, nearly cutting off the circulation in Thor's hand. He doesn't sound half as disturbed as Thor feels, but with Loki, that doesn't mean anything. "It's a fight waiting to happen."

Thor finally risks a glance at the table where his parents and sister are sitting. Father is eating. Mother is folding and re-folding her napkin, gaze skittering to Thor within seconds. The imploring look on her face has him dropping his own gaze before he sees more of Hela than the back of her head.

" _Thor_."

The rig creaks in the back of Thor's mind. His vision grays around the edges, painful in its threat of total blindness. Loki says his name again, and Thor turns his head to the sound. He fixes his good eye on Loki's face until it remembers that it's his good eyes. He blinks, and takes another piece of food from the buffet.

He has to go. They both do.

The second they're close enough to the table, Hela twists around. She nails Thor with her thin, green eyes, and he wants to crawl into the floor.

Loki steers him to a seat. "Hela, Mother. Father. My condolences."

His sincerity is less than convincing, but Odin accepts it anyway. He's aged a little in the last few years, but more or less remains unchanged—gray-bearded and stout, built like Thor but with the remains of red clinging to his beard, not blond. His plate is piled higher than Kilimanjaro.

Thor's stomach is churning too violently to eat anything. He expected to be more afraid, but now that he's here, the dull throb in his gut is building anger. And he's scared of that anger, because Mother always taught him to temper it, as he tempers all the sharp corners of himself.

Loki settles down between Thor and Mother, picking a vegetable off Thor's plate and popping it into his mouth.

Mother lifts her fork, the crease of her forehead softening slightly as she looks around the table. "I can't remember the last time we all sat down together."

"In a courtroom," Thor says, eye on Hela.

His ever-mercurial sister winks. "Missed you too, baby brother." Her gaze slides to Loki. "Not so much you, stranger."

"We're all family here," Father says, through a mouthful of potato skins. "Thor, why don't you make up with your sister? It's been too long."

The anger spikes sharply, and Loki's thigh presses against Thor's under the table. Thor can't tell which one of them is quivering, now.

"We can talk about that later." Mother puts her hand on Loki's shoulder. "For now, I just want to hear about you boys. Loki, why don't you tell them about university?"

Loki takes a napkin from the wrought-iron holder in the center of the table. "I studied law for three years," he says, "and then I quit."

There's a pause.

"Am I supposed to be impressed?" Hela asks.

"I thought you graduated early." Mother drops her hand. "What do you mean, quit? When? _Why_?"

Loki picks a finger roll from Thor's plate and devours it in two short bites. "I said I'd left, not that I graduated. It isn't the end of the world, Mother."

"But what are you going to do with your life?"

No one's ever asked Thor that, which is probably for the best. Judging by the pinched line of Loki's eyebrows, it isn't his favorite question, either. "I was thinking I'd be a fisherman."

His gaze skates to Thor, and the clenched fist around Thor's stomach lessens, just slightly.

"You could always sail out of Aslaugstrand," Thor ventures. "I could knit you a hat."

"Oh, do you knit?" For a moment, Loki's eyes sparkle with mischief—like they're children again and starting nonsense at the dinner table to keep Hela off their backs.

"I'd have to learn." Thor rubs his chin and pretends to think about it. "I wonder if Hedda knows."

"Thor." Odin stops eating, which should probably be logged in a history book somewhere. The look he gives Thor is uncompromisingly stern. "Stop humoring him and have some respect."

Thor looks at his father. Under the table, maybe sensing the coming storm, Loki puts his hand on Thor's knee. And the warmth is indecent, heat swelling through Thor's abdomen, but it's not enough to distract him. He's sorry for that.

"Respect?" Thor repeats, slow and calm and nothing like how he actually feels. Loki's fingers tighten, nails digging into Thor's flesh through his thin dress pants, but it's far too late. "Are you really going to lecture me about _respect_ with _that_ sitting there?"

He jabs a finger at Hela, who dabs her pale lips with a napkin as if they're talking about anything but her. Her vacant expression is all-too-familiar; she always excelled at being a nonpresence until the last, most damaging second.

"Thor." Odin's tone is sharper. "Your sister is a person—"

"She's a monster."

"And you're a bastard." Hela sets the napkin down, commandeering the conversation with a tilt of her angled chin. "No tantrum will ever change that."

Mother lets out a distressed noise, but she's too far in Thor's periphery for him to see. He senses Loki shifting beside him, probably moving to comfort her; for obvious reasons, Mother never liked being reminded of Father's infidelity. But for once, that isn't Thor's problem or fault. He fixes his gaze on Hela.

"You'll never be sorry." He isn't saying it for her benefit, but in the vain hope that, for once, _someone_ other than him will recognize it. "You will never regret what you've done. You're incapable of it. But you expect me to take the blame for something that happened before I was even born? Should Loki, as well, bear the sins of his father?"

"If he wants." Hela's smile is cruel. "I wonder what a fitting punishment for that would be. They do say _an eye for an eye_ . . ."

Thor slams his fist on the table, on his feet before he remembers deciding to stand. It would take very little for him to lunge over, to seize her slim throat in his much larger hands. Location and witnesses be damned.

Hela remains cool, one leg still crossed over the other, the picture of a relaxed guest. "Hit a nerve, did I?"

"Damn you to the ends of the earth, you, I swear—"

"Thor." This time, it isn't Father who intervenes, but Loki. He puts his hand on Thor's arm, drawing him back down, and it isn't quite enough to dispel the rage but it's Loki so Thor goes, sinking into the chair like it's the last lifeboat on the Titanic.

"You should follow our parents' example," Loki goes on, quiet but somehow ten times more deadly than Thor's blustering. The fact that he doesn't look at either of their parents as he says it makes it even worse. "Say nothing, and perhaps she'll take an ear this time."

His fingers trace the curve of Thor's ear, and Thor has to abruptly drop his gaze to his plate. His cheeks burn. There's something tense rising between him and Loki that has nothing to do with the family, and he hopes no one else can see it.

"Or perhaps she'll finally turn those sociopathic tendencies on herself." His touch skates down Thor's neck, soft and frightening. "Do us all a favor, and end her miserable existence."

"That's enough." Mother sounds appalled. When Thor glances at her, her face is paler than chalk. "This is a _funeral_. Please refrain from making a scene."

She doesn't go so far as to scold Loki for being cruel, which is good because Thor would have put up with that for exactly zero minutes. He glances at Father, who's returned to eating. An outsider might give him a break on the grounds of grieving, but Thor knows better.

Loki's hand stills, hovering over Thor's cheek. "I remember I dared Thor to walk the guard rail outside Bestefar's house, once. When we all lived there."

Thor catches his breath.

"I was always daring Thor to do the stupidest thing in any given situation, so it probably wouldn't have stuck in my mind," Loki goes on, deceptively calm. His bicep, resting on Thor's shoulder as he continues to stroke Thor's cheek in an overly affectionate way, is taut. "If Hela hadn't pushed him over while he was climbing up."

Father pauses, his second brownie halfway to his mouth, before taking a large, seemingly oblivious bite. There's a tic in his jaw that his beard can't entirely hide.

"Thirteen was fairly young for a near-death experience. But, you know, it's probably best that I learned early on how devious humanity can be." Loki's hand is scalding on Thor's face, but he makes no move to silence his brother. Loki's anger is far more devastating than his own. "That's when I decided, incidentally. That one day I would leave this place and never come back."

Father sets down his brownie. "And yet, here you are. Still throwing tantrums to get what you want."

Loki gives him a thin smile. "What makes you think I don't already have it?"

"Then go already, and be damned." Odin raises his hand, then lets it fall on the table with a defeated _thump_. "I don't know what more you want from me, _boy._ "

Thor is watching Loki—he's always, in some capacity or another, watching Loki—so he's the only one who notices Loki's smile has become a mask. That the corners of his eyes tighten, and his throat bobs, as if Odin's words have dealt him a crushing blow.

Thor isn't the savviest when it comes to social cues, but he knows Loki better than anyone else in the world, even now. He might still be in the dark about the falling out between Loki and Father, but he can see the wreckage it left behind, and he doesn't understand why Loki would risk it. Doesn't know what Loki wants any more than Father.

But he knows what _he_ wants.

"At least acknowledge it." He pushes Loki's hand away, gently, his attention for Father now. "Look at me. Look at what your _daughter_ did."

He points to his eye, although it's a useless gesture. Odin is focused on his plate.

Hela snickers. "Ever the drama queen, Thor. It's not like I was trying to _kill_ you."

"A childhood of torture says differently." Loki was right. Coming over was only asking for a fight. But if Thor's honest—he wanted it that way. To drag it all out in the open so Father and Mother couldn't deny it any longer. If he screams it in their faces, he wonders, will they finally listen?

He appeals to Mother next. "Don't you understand? You—both of you—are losing your sons. Why do you think I haven't been home? Why do you think I was so eager to leave?"

"Thor, being a parent is more complicated than you understand," Mother says softly. "I love all three of you equally—"

"She _gouged_ out my _eye_!" Thor stands, managing not to strike the table this time. "I'm not being dramatic. When I was seventeen, she pinned me down and pried it out with a butter knife and _neither of you_ have ever said a word about it!"

Their silence is far worse than any defense they might have offered.

Thor looks to Loki, who folds his napkin and stands. They've outstayed their welcome and exhausted their patience. It's time.

"See you at Christmas," Hela calls after them, mocking, and Thor flinches.


	4. Chapter 4

Thor wakes up from _the_ nightmare in a cold sweat. There's a shadow lurking in his doorway, and for a moment, he thinks he's still dreaming. Then the figure shifts and steps forward, half-lit by the faint moonlight coming through the window, and speaks to him in Loki's voice.

"You were whimpering."

"You heard me?" He doesn't switch on the light. He's afraid to acknowledge that Loki is actually here.

Loki shifts again, his voice a whisper even though there's no one else in the house to wake. Except maybe Bestefar's ghost, but Thor's pretty sure ghosts aren't real. Probably. "I might have already been upstairs."

Thor rubs his eyes. Decides it's far too late—or too early, maybe—to ask. "What time is it?"

"Oneish." Fabric rustles, Loki closing his arms across his chest in silhouette. "Are you all right?"

"No. You?"

"Not so much." They were subdued after the funeral, making and eating supper in silence before going their separate ways. Thor had planned to tackle a few more household chores, but after seeing Hela, he didn't feel like doing anything except crawling in bed and checking out for the night. He should have known his dreams wouldn't let him escape.

He pushes back the blanket in subtle invitation. Vines, and creaking metal, and claustrophobia war in the back of his mind, and maybe Loki senses it because after an indeterminately long time he slips from the doorway and into bed.

He's slight and dark and there's still too much of him, as if Thor's invited the bogeyman to stay instead of his brother. Adopted brother. He mentally corrects himself, and then pulls up short, confused by the distinction he's never felt the need to make before. He tells himself it's just the aftertaste of Hela's venomous words, but Loki was always the better liar.

He waits to see if they're going to talk.

Loki fusses with the blankets, adjusts the covers _just so_ , pushes his hair up over the pillow then back down, against his neck. Settles on his back with an arm thrown over his eyes, probably so he won't have to look at Thor. Even in the darkness, afraid to be seen.

The first thing Thor saw when he woke up in the hospital was the plastic-covered television opposite his bed. The sound was muted, but blocky subtitles ran along the bottom of the screen, too fast for Thor to read. His right eye wouldn't open for some reason.

Loki had stayed with him that night, first slouched in a sickeningly mauve, straight-backed arm chair, next on a cot the nursing staff brought in when it became apparent he wasn't going to leave. Thor had reached out in the night to find Loki's arm, reassured by his presence.

It wasn't that he hadn't loved or wanted his parents. It isn't that he doesn't love or want them now. It's just.

It's just them. It's always been them.

Thor's hand hovers over Loki's forearm, but he drops it before Loki notices or feels obliged to react. He doesn't need to touch. It's enough that Loki's here. It's enough that they have each other.

The bed isn't as uncomfortable as it had been when he first woke up. His sleep is still restless, dozes snatched here and there, but every time a threat of _the_ nightmare jerks him back to consciousness, Loki is there. He's solid under Thor's hand, the steady rise and fall of his shoulder promising a serenity Thor himself doesn't feel, but chooses to believe in nonetheless.

*

Four days into their deep clean, Loki takes his rental out for a couple hours and returns with an entire life in his back seat—clothes and toiletries, towels and books, and a handful of dorm-sized appliances. Not everything is new. Thor holds up a battered textbook in a silent question, and Loki rolls his eyes like he's telling Thor not to ask stupid questions.

He pops the trunk, jerking his chin over his shoulder for Thor to deal with it while he takes his first load of possessions into the house.

Thor heads around the car to peer in the trunk, expecting something unwieldy and slightly illegal, but finding only a bright, red cooler. He wants to know if there are body parts in it before he commits to carrying it, so he jerks the lid up with a quick breath.

It's only beer. A lot of beer, but nothing else. Relieved, Thor closes the cooler and grabs it by the handle, easily lifting it from the car and closing the trunk. By the time he makes it to the steps, Loki's coming out for a second trip.

"Are you going to share?" Thor asks, hoisting up the cooler.

Loki sidesteps, allowing him to pass. "I didn't buy it for me."

There's already a lifetime's worth of junk in Bestefar's house, but Loki's clutter makes it cozy rather than claustrophobic. Even if his books are heavy and somber and his wardrobe is predominately black. Their parents bought everything for them growing up; this is the first time Thor's had a chance to see the choices Loki made for himself. He holds up a netted shirt, fascinated.

"I have several questions."

"And now's a wonderful time for you to keep them to yourself." Loki snatches the shirt from his grip and stuffs it, at random, into one of his bags. It's hard to tell if he's annoyed, flustered, or a little bit of both.

They split the cooler that night, making their rounds through the house as Thor points out what still needs to be done. With no one else around to give a damn, he has great plans involving fresh coats of paint and knocking down interior walls. Some of Bestefar's things can go into storage. The rest, provided it remains unclaimed, will be donated to charity. He waits for Loki to disagree, but Loki just knocks back his bottle and nods.

"It's no small task," he says, as if he hasn't been helping Thor for almost a week now.

Thor takes the beer from him. "Nothing worth doing, right?"

Loki scowls, but he doesn't argue. They pass by Hela's room as if it isn't there, and Thor stops in the doorway of the bedroom he's been using. Loki steps up next to him, not caring that there's hardly enough space on the threshold. He makes a bid for his stolen bottle, but Thor holds it out of his reach, banging his elbow against the doorframe in the process, and Loki gives up.

He slouches against the frame, taking in the soulless room, and not for the first time, Thor wonders what he sees. What he remembers. Does that narrow wardrobe hold the same meaning for him as it does Thor? Did he come back looking for absolution, or out of loneliness, or because he decided it was about damn time to confront whatever sent him running from their family in the first place?

Thor lifts one of the bottles to his lips, not tasting the sour, sharp alcohol until it hits his sinuses. He gives Loki's beer back as an afterthought.

"They did their best," he ventures, obligated to say _something._

Loki is pressed so close, Thor can feel the muscles in his upper arm flex as he takes a drink, and shift again as he lowers the bottle to turn it in his hands. "You used to be angrier."

"And you used to smile when you were scared." Thor nudges him, not for any specific purpose but because he likes how it feels to bend Loki's body to his will, just a bit. "Not all changes are bad."

Loki leans against him in return, just enough steel in his response that Thor straightens and behaves himself. "Just say it, Thor."

"Why do I have to be the one to do it?"

"Because you're the one who _feels_ it."

"You don't?"

"It's different." Loki tilts his head back, drinking again. His throat is pale and long and flows so comfortably into his collarbone, half-hidden by his sleep shirt, that Thor has to look away. "I always felt it."

"Really?"

Loki slants him a look, the special kind meant to make Thor feel like an idiot, but under it is a very real streak of bitterness that Thor can't believe he hasn't noticed before. "Yes, really. At least half of you belongs here. None of me ever did."

Thor begins to tell him that's not true, but that itself would be a lie. "It's not—it's just our family, Loki. It's not _you_. None of us belong."

Loki toasts the empty room. "And I wish them all their miserable happiness."

"Okay," Thor says, because Loki told him he had to be the one to do it, "to hell with them. And to hell with being their son."

"Aye, sir," Loki says, wryly, and the deprecating smirk on his face is almost as heady as the alcohol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _to hell with consistent chapter lengths, this is a rogue operation. :)_


	5. Chapter 5

Thor kips out first, slumped in Loki's lap after lunging at him in jest. He's too comfortable to move, despite Loki's fuzzy protests, and the next thing he knows, he's blinking awake on Loki's oddly soft thigh, extremely pained by the sunlight pouring through the living room windows. He's sore and his head hurts. Loki, slumped awkwardly against the arm rest of the couch, won't be in much better shape when he comes around.

He rolls to his feet before that happens, the pounding in his head severe enough that his vision goes spotty for a moment. But he's handled hangovers before, too, and this isn't the worst he's suffered through. Definitely nothing a piss, a cup of coffee, and a good breakfast won't fix. He wonders if Loki is the same.

Then he pictures Loki in university, doing what university students do, drinking and having fun and possibly hooking up with strangers—it doesn't seem like a law student's scene, but what does Thor know? Everything he can say about college comes from things he's seen on TV. He's never even stepped foot on a campus.

He sets himself to cooking before he can think too hard about it. The noise of pans clanking together exacerbates his headache, but it's nothing compared to Loki, given the way he shuffles in after only a few moments, swearing so violently, Bryn would be put to shame.

His hair's a mess, heavy bags under his green eyes, and he glares at Thor as if he's seriously considering grabbing a knife from the block on the counter. "Could you be any noisier?"

"I could certainly try." Thor holds up two pots teasingly, making as if to bang them together, and Loki seizes his wrist.

It's getting harder and harder to keep himself together when Loki touches him.

Maybe Loki reads it in his face, or maybe he's just too cranky to deal with Thor's shit, because he steps back after only a second and swings open the fridge door, pulling out a half gallon of milk.

"You'll make yourself sick," Thor warns, and Loki ignores him, chugging it straight from the carton. In his oversized black shirt and yesterday's jeans, he looks a wreck and smells twice as bad. It's a far cry from the polished front he put on for the funeral, but that doesn't mean it's not another act.

They eat in relative silence, and Loki claims the shower first. It's quiet. Last night clings, sluggish, to Thor's muscles and memories, and he spends so long ruminating over his own words that the dishwater goes cold while he's scrubbing up the last of the plates.

He thinks he disowned his entire family yesterday. Is that how it works? Just deciding, after years of hell, that you've had enough and you aren't going to put up with it any more? He's spent years with his foot out the door already, taking the job on the rig to avoid the complications of the land—at least until it started being more of a prison than a refuge.

It seems like there ought to be more ceremony. Maybe he should make an announcement.

But no. The quiet is appropriate. After all, it's not that he feels angry or hateful any more. It's that he's too burned out to feel _anything_.

Loki emerges from the shower, pink-cheeked and still damp around the corners, drying his unruly hair with a towel. Thor's starting to think he doesn't own clothes that aren't black. "Why are you eating ice cream? We just had breakfast."

"It's past noon," Thor says, digging his spoon around a chunk of chocolate. Truthfully, he wasn't thinking when he took the carton out of the freezer—but that's a problem for another day. He offers Loki a bite. "Celebrate with me."

"My head still hates me for last night's celebrating," Loki bitches, but he takes the spoon and has a few bites, possibly just to mollify him. "By the way, you reek."

"Yes, well, _someone_ was hogging the shower." Thor licks his fingers and leaves the carton in Loki's care, heading for the bathroom. "Put it back when you're done."

"No, I thought I'd leave it on the counter to melt." The spoon clatters in the sink as Loki puts the ice cream away, proving his interest in it was purely for Thor's benefit.

When Thor gets out of his rushed shower, they resume their work where they left off. Sorting through Bestafar's belongings room by room is slow going even when they're at their freshest, which they aren't. Thor comes dangerously close to dozing off on a pile of afghans, and Loki is alternately snappish and soft, bitching at Thor for his own sluggishness before leaning against him as they flip through one of their grandfather's old photo albums.

They eat their second meal around four, and load the bags they've collected so far into the bed of Thor's truck. He tosses a tarp over it before going back inside.

"What are you going to do when we're done?" Loki asks, because of all his best questions come out of Left Field, Hell. "With your life?"

"That's a terrible question to ask someone. You should know that." Thor surveys the much neater living room, nodding his approval. It was the last room they had to deal with on the first floor. He's already decided the upstairs bedrooms can wait. Tomorrow, they'll be ready to attack the basement.

"I'm asking anyway." Loki is sitting on the couch, and he pinches at the cushions while he talks. "The only thing I remember you doing when we were kids is play video games. School isn't an option, and you've quit the rig, so . . . ?"

"So I'm going to stay here for a while."

"You and what bill-paying job?"

Thor leans on the back of the couch, looming over Loki's head in a not-so-subtle warning to shut up. "Maybe I'll be a fisherman."

Loki tilts his head back to look at him, unimpressed. "I already called that. There must be something you're good at."

"Being pushed around." Thor taps Loki's forehead, right between his eyebrows. "Starting fights. Moving heavy objects from one place to another."

He doesn't understand why Loki smiles. "You could be my bodyguard."

"Last I checked, you were also unemployed." Thor folds his arms on the couch cushion, the motion bringing him closer to Loki's face. "What are you going to do?"

_Stay?_

Loki hums. "I'll let you know when I figure it out."

_*_

Loki follows Thor upstairs that night, armed with a blanket and pillow and looking offensively exhausted for someone who hauled exactly 0 (zero) garbage bags full of shit into the truck this afternoon. If he's uncomfortable, he doesn't let on, but strides in like they'd decided this was going to be a thing, the two of them sleeping in the same bed, and Thor doesn't have it in him to object.

He climbs in first, claiming the side next to the wall. Mother and Father's bed is, of course, big enough to house them both—but Thor still feels like there isn't enough room. The feeling is even stronger in the light, and he's quick to send them into darkness as soon as Loki's settled.

He waits, like before, to see if they're going to talk. Loki's presence extends outside his body, wrapping Thor in claustrophobic comfort. It's difficult to believe the salt-rust-tang of _the nightmare_ will be able to reach Thor through the haze, but he's only traded one devil for another. 

He gets the feeling touching Loki would be a mistake right now. He stares across his pillow until his eye adjusts, Loki's profile slowly emerging from murky shadows. It isn't defined enough, not with Thor's limited sight. The closer he drifts to sleep, the vaguer Loki's image gets, and as his eye blurs with the effort of staying focused, he begins to fear losing Loki entirely. He's afraid if he strains too long, he'll give in and let his wandering hands claim Loki's body.

So he turns to the closet, and tries to kill the feeling while it's still small enough to die.

*

They're brushing their teeth the next morning when Loki sets down his toothbrush and says, "Actually, I did come back for you."

He says it as if it's nothing, but he's clearly been considering the words for a long time.

Thor blinks down at him, unnerved, but Loki goes back to his morning routine as if he doesn't want to talk about it, and in the end, Thor lets him have his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> onward! we're just about at the halfway point. thank you for reading so far :)


	6. Chapter 6

They cover everything, in the next few weeks.

They talk about interior walls and plumbing problems, negotiate the return of the rental and subsequent quest to find Loki a car of his own before deciding to share the truck for the time being. They debate _every. fucking. meal._ and their shrinking finances and the finer points of Thor's flannel-inundated wardrobe. They have five years to catch up on, after all, and no topic escapes exhaustion.

Except.

There's a very specific hole in their discussions, where Loki avoids mentioning that he spent five years dodging Thor's calls and Thor avoids asking why. It's a wound of the deepest kind, and he'd be lying if he said it didn't benefit him to ignore it, too.

Loki's here. He doesn't have plans to leave in the immediate future. Any doubts Thor had about that vanish the day Loki posts their parents' old bedframe up for sale online and forces them to get a futon instead.

"It's better for your back," Loki says, when he notices Thor's face.

Thor wasn't actually objecting to the choice, but rather the fact that Loki was making it for both of them—and  _objecting_ isn't even the right word for it. He feels like he  _ought_ to object, that they shouldn't be . . . well, they shouldn't be a  _they_ , but  this has already gone too far for him to mention it and he's not actually upset.

He leans on the counter next to Loki, pretending not to notice how the cock of Loki's hip would perfectly suit the curve of his arm. How Loki almost seems to exaggerate it, like he wants Thor to take a damn hint.

Thor looks at the furniture site over Loki's shoulder, considering the price of the futon, realizing he's calculating based on their shared finances. "I like the burgundy better."

"It would clash with the paint."

"Not once I repaint the room—have you been paying attention to my vision boards at all?" Thor gestures to the kitchen wall, where he's been pinning his boards over Bestefar's outdated wallpaper.

Loki shoots him a weary look and orders the futon in burgundy.

No one wants a used mattress, so they're forced to haul the old one into the bed of the truck and take it to the dump once the futon arrives. There's a finality to the action of pushing it out and driving away, like they're leaving behind the last, most rotted piece of a place rapidly becoming Home.

And after that, the only thing left to cover is what they're actually going to do with their lives, if not for the next ten years, then at least for the next few months. Moving forward is unavoidable, even if they've spent these last few weeks at a restful standstill.

"I have to work," Thor says, over lunch in the diner.

Loki's shoveling two days' worth of potato salad into his body but he still finds a way to make his face frightening, despite his stuffed cheeks. "You mean _we_."

"I'm not in the business of telling you that you _have_ to do anything, Loki." Thor stabs at an onion ring before surrendering and picking it up with his fingers. "I'm not a total fool."

"We'll agree to disagree." Loki smirks at Thor's scowl and starts in on his sandwich. "There's a teaching position open at the school. I thought of applying."

"You? Teaching?" Thor almost scoffs, but Loki's wearing some extremely pointy-toed shoes and it's not worth the risk. He chews on his hamburger instead, considering. He can't really see Loki as a teacher, but the more he thinks about it, the more he can't see Loki as an _anything_ , so maybe he doesn't have a dog in this fight. "Well, if that's what you want."

"Good answer." Loki eyes him. "And you?"

"I'd be a terrible teacher."

"Beg to differ, but that isn't what I was asking." The compliment is slant, and Thor doesn't realize Loki's said something genuinely nice until it's too late to thank him. "You need to do something for work. You'd make a terrible house husband."

Thor props his chin on his hand. "Should I make a joke about waiting for you in an apron, or is that too easy?"

"Low hanging fruit," Loki agrees.

"Hedda mentioned her nephew needs help on his farm." Thor doesn't resume eating, just watches Loki finish his own plate and start in on Thor's. He eats like there isn't enough food in the world, but he's still so thin. Thor isn't sure if he's more worried or jealous.

"That sounds more like you." Loki delicately dabs ketchup off his pinky with his tongue. "Heaven forbid you depart from traditional masculinity."

"Excuse you," Thor says, although he knows Loki's just taunting him, "I'm absolutely unopposed to being a house husband. And we both know my chocolate-chip cookies are to die for."

Loki catches his eye, pinky still hovering by his mouth, and something dark flits across his face. "I wouldn't go that far," he says, but quietly, like his thoughts are lightyears from the conversation.

Thor thinks that darkness might be contagious, because something uncannily similar to it ties his stomach in knots, and he has to study the street outside the window before it overcomes him. "Time to polish our resumes, I guess."

Loki laughs, almost normal again. "Ah, yes—an uneducated sailor and a uni dropout. Who wouldn't want to hire us?"

Thor says something sharpish that he forgets later, and they bicker while Loki cleans his claimed plate and Thor puts in an order of pie to go. Loki isn't _wrong_ , but despite his patented negativity he gets an interview by the end of the week, and Thor's natural charm wins over Hedda's nephew—that, and the fact that literally no one wants to do the job he's signing up for.

But Thor doesn't mind. He gets most of the messy work, and he has to get up at three in the morning most days to get there on time, but he also gets to work outside and none of his tasks involve a lot of complex thought. He can _do_ complex thought, regardless of anything Loki might say otherwise, but it's nice to have a break. To leave his job behind when he goes home for the day, rather than have it haunt his dreams.

Loki doesn't get the teaching job, but he finds an assistant position at the city office and he seems to like it—although he _doesn't_ like having to get up at three to give Thor a ride to work so he can have the truck when he needs it.

It's the perfect time to revisit their car discussion, but they don't. They just make it work; Loki dropping him off at the crack of dawn and picking him up mid-afternoon. Lunch in the bed of the truck, then home and a nap for Thor and back to the office for Loki. It should be irritating and inconvenient, and it is, but it still makes Thor happy and he doesn't get it.

He doesn't get it, and he doesn't get it, and then—all at once, far too late in the game—he does. He's going back and forth with Loki in the kitchen while they pack their lunch for the next day. Loki wants him to take Saturday off so they can drive to a "proper" city and buy new clothes or some nonsense like that, and Thor isn't opposed to the idea but it's too short notice for them to do it _this weekend, so can't you wait?_

And Loki says, "I need to pick up my prescription," all frustrated like Thor should know that already. Which Thor doesn't, because this is the first he's heard of any prescription, but that's not the point. The point is the long, drawn out, convoluted discussion they have while trying to balance out each other's priorities.

The point is how agonizingly _domestic_ it is, figuring out how to make his life fit around Loki's life in a way that they both can live with, and how it never occurs to either of them to just do their own thing. Like their futon, their expenses, their house—it's all theirs _._ Plural. Unquestionably.

Thor loves it.

Thor . . . loves Loki.

And he feels like an idiot the second he figures it out because _of course_ he loves Loki, he's _always_ loved Loki, the way a ship loves an anchor or a wave loves the sand.

Having a name to the thing doesn't make it easy to handle. It's worse, actually, because he looks at Loki while they're having their four a.m. breakfast and thinks _I love you_ , and it's all he can do not to brush the sleep-tangled curls out of Loki's face. He rolls out of the truck and makes the mistake of looking over his shoulder, giving Loki one last smile before starting his day, and he thinks _I love you_ and almost climbs back into the cab and tells Loki as much.

Loki brushes against him in the night, and Thor turns his back and nails his arms under his head and the _I love you_ is so powerful that he holds his breath until he sees spots and the feeling still won't go. He escapes downstairs and hides in the bathroom, shaky and cold and all too aware that this can't continue for long.

Metal creaks, and the scent of rust and salt teases the back of his sinuses, not quite a smell. Just the memory of a smell, powerful enough to touch him even now.

His eye throbs with phantom pain, and he eases the patch up to study the empty socket for the first time in . . . he's not sure. Like his fingers, knees, or dick, he stopped closely examining his body parts in his early twenties, and although he never fully _forgets_ the fact that he's missing an eye, he does often forget that he hasn't always been this way.

It hurt.

He avoids delving into the meat of the memory, only allowing himself the impersonal narrative of _it hurt._ He still gets flashes of the actual event as he traces his finger over the scars his sister left behind—scraps of Hela's face, pain, the parqueted floor sliding under his thrashing arms and legs. He should really tear up that flooring.

The doorway creaks, and he turns to see Loki.

_Not now,_ he thinks, desperately. He blinks in the hopes it's a dream, and is disappointed.

Loki hovers on the threshold, obviously uncertain if he should stay or go, and Thor almost tells him to go. If he were stronger, he would.

Instead, he sinks to the edge of the tub and holds his arms out. The  plea is childish, but for once Loki doesn't mock him. His narrow face is grave, but the serious air is threatened by his cartoonish boxers (a Christmas gift, he said, but that could be a lie) and orange t-shirt (Thor's, in name at least). 

He closes the bathroom door behind him, as if there's anyone here besides them. But that's Loki's way—bedroom doors stay open: bathroom doors stay closed. No exceptions.

Thor's always been a firm believer in Nothing Is As Bad As It Seems and You'll Feel Better In The Morning, but morning feels a long way off, and being in love with his adopted brother hardly seems to be an easily resolved problem.

Loki pushes Thor's arms down, crouching in front of him instead of offering the no-strings-attached hug Thor hoped for. "How long have you not been sleeping?"

"I get claustrophobic." Thor's voice is rough, strange in his own ears. "It isn't personal, just. All that time spent at sea."

"Ah, yes. Nothing more claustrophobic than the open ocean," Loki drones, but Thor's too used to his sarcasm to be offended. Loki rests one knee on the floor for balance, and he's a breath away but they aren't actually touching. Not yet. "And that's not a proper answer."

There's an undercurrent to his brisk words: _talk to me._ A silent, and familiar, demand. When they were younger, there was little Thor didn't share with Loki, but as he's constantly reminded, that was a very long time ago.

Maybe in a few months, a year; maybe when he's put down a few more roots in this sleepy, lovely town and can tell himself it's home with or without Loki in it. When Bryn gets off assignment and finally comes by to visit like she's been saying she will, or Sif returns from sabbatical and they can go back to being pint-in-the-pub friends instead of Skype-at-ungodly-hours friends.

He might have the strength to tell Loki someday, to risk losing him. But not right now. Not when Loki's the most important thing in this house and Thor can't imagine living here alone, going back to the days when he reached out and only got a dial tone.

He rather likes having his brother back.

So he doesn't touch Loki. He's good. He resists, as he's been resisting for weeks.

Loki looks him full in the face and his expression knots up like badly tied shoelaces and his fingers twitch. Thor doesn't miss that part, Loki's slender fingers twitching, as if to move in Thor's direction. To tap against his ankle, his calf—maybe to skitter up the swell of his thigh and—

And Thor really can't afford to think about it any longer. He breaks eye contact and says, "I'm going to try the couch. Maybe it will feel more . . . open."

He knows Loki misunderstands this. That he assumes Thor is trying, as tactfully as possible, to say that sleeping beside him is the problem. It's a terrible damaging notion but it's better than the truth. It's easier for people to handle not being loved enough than being loved too much.

Loki eases back, his tone going cool. "Well, I hope that helps, then. You know where I'll be if not."

He leaves, and Thor waits for his footsteps to quiet before leaving the sanctuary of the bathroom. He doesn't take up the couch, but makes himself a cup of tea and sits at the kitchen table until it's time to leave for work. Loki doesn't get up until it's far too late for them to have breakfast together, and the ride to the farm is uncomfortably quiet.

But this is better. Thor repeats it to himself for the next week, and hopes that one of these mornings he'll wake up and actually believe it.


	7. Chapter 7

They've studiously _not_ talked about the fact that, in a house of three bedrooms, they've always preferred to cram themselves on a single futon, and for some reason Thor thought that because they haven't talked about it, it can't possibly be important.

Stupid, really. He should know by now that the only things they _don't_ discuss are the things that really matter, and his presence on the couch is now solidly in the same category as Loki's five-year gap in Thor's life. Loki slams pots and pans when he's cooking, and sometimes even when he's not, and when Thor goes looking for him he's mysteriously gone, although the truck stays in the driveway and Thor never goes as far as to call Loki's phone.

"It will be nice to have a day trip," he says, around four-thirtyish Saturday morning while Loki's driving him to work. It's the day they're supposed to venture into "a proper city" after he gets off work, for clothes and Loki's prescription; it took a lot of negotiating for Thor to agree to beg off early and Loki to consent to wait.

So when Loki says, "I'm going while you're at work, actually," in the same cool tone he's used for the last three days, Thor's first thought is to start a fight.

His second is that he's made a terrible mistake.

"I thought—"

Loki cuts the engine halfway up the driveway, a good mile from where he normally drops Thor off. The farmhouse is still a good distance away, and made hazy in the pre-dawn murk. "Have a good day."

Thor lingers despite the dismissal, looking for the right answer in Loki's face and coming up empty. He should explain. But he has no idea how he'd even begin, and anyway, he's got to get walking or he'll be late. He slams the cab door closed, and Loki pulls a u-turn without waiting for him to step back.

 _He'll get over it,_ Thor thinks, but Loki doesn't.

He picks Thor up that afternoon in the same icy silence, and any attempts Thor makes to talk about their respective days are ignored. The next morning is the same. And because Loki hasn't stopped doing anything Thor really _needs_ him to do, like give him a ride to work or pin the electricity bill where he won't forget to pay it, there's no opening for Thor to start a fight.

He tries again the next evening. Loki's turning the pages of his magazine with mechanical precision, eyes unfocused on the text, and it seems as good a time as any.

"Lo," he says, and then feels foolish because they're beyond the comfort of childhood nicknames, "Loki, I think we should—maybe it's time to talk."

Loki's hands still, but he doesn't look up. And honestly, Thor doesn't know what he's about to say but he doesn't want to hear it. Loki closes the magazine and stands; without saying a word, he disappears down the hall. The door to their old bedroom closes behind him a second later, and Thor realizes he was just blanked. Hard.

He follows; of course he does. Knocks on the door and, when that gets no response, tries the knob. It's locked, and he almost—but no. This house already holds the wreckage of too many barriers crossed. He won't be like Hela, like his father, letting his rage overcome him to the tune of broken locks and smashed furniture.

He sleeps upstairs that night, although _sleep_ is a gracious description for the disjointed moments of unconsciousness. He jerks awake to imaginary sounds, and can't shake the notion that Loki will creep back in the middle of the night and everything will be like it used to be. He's asking for it, sleeping here.

But Loki doesn't return, and Thor dozes, and sleeping apart isn't working any better than sleeping together.

It will be better, he thinks, staring at the ceiling while he waits for his alarm to go off. It will _get_ better. Loki will talk to him again; he'll thaw, or else Thor will figure out the right combination of words to use to get him back without giving himself away.

Loki has Wednesdays off, so Thor gets the truck to himself that day and goes twenty-four hours without seeing his adopted brother. Loki's barricaded himself in the upstairs room when Thor gets home, and no amount of knocking or not-quite-shouting draws him out.

Thor forces himself to stop after only a few minutes, remembering how it feels to be on the other side of that door, wondering if the monster will tear its way in. He doesn't think he's ever given Loki a reason to be afraid of him, but he'd like to keep it that way.

He turns to go, and catches sight of Hela's half-open door. They still haven't cleared out her room, not that she left much behind. It's just . . . the memory of it.

He pushes the door all the way open on principle, forcing himself to take it in. It's innocuous—a twin-sized bed, still covered in a yellow floral quilt, and a wicker chair in the corner. A dresser painted with tiny, blue and yellow flowers. It looks like the room of a much nicer person.

A floorboard creaks behind Thor, and he turns to see Loki leaning in the open doorway, worrying at the rolled sleeve of his shirt. His face is pinched and tired, and Thor can't breathe for looking at him. "Thinking of taking up residence?"

"You're talking to me," Thor says, numbly.

Loki twists the fabric of his shirt more tightly. "For the moment."

"I—"

"You don't have to offer excuses." Loki crosses the room with practiced fearlessness, sitting on Hela's bed and crossing his ankles. "You were always a terrible liar."

Thor hovers, and he doesn't like it, how out of place and _large_ it makes him feel—as if there's been a day in the last twenty years that he hasn't felt too big for the world—so he sits next to Loki instead.

The bed creaks.

Hela wouldn't like them in here. She was viciously protective of her space, possessive of her role as the oldest, the only one allowed privacy in this small, dank house. And even though she's miles away and Thor's far too old to be afraid of her, he still gets the chills as he combs his hand over the gorgeous rag quilt she made a point of hating.

"Just." Loki knots his fingers in his lap. "Say it. You want me to leave."

"I—what?" Thor catches his breath, knees locking in the instinctual desire to flee. "Is that what you think?"

Loki shrugs. He does not look at Thor. He used to sneak into Hela's room, both on his own and dragging Thor after him, when they were younger. There was a year—a few years, maybe—when Hela was in school and they weren't, and they used to escape Mother's games and chores to invade their older sister's privacy. But that was before this place.

Thor inspects the rug, then forces himself to look back at Loki. It falls upon him to say something, but he doesn't—he doesn't _know_. This isn't as easy as it used to be, or maybe it was never easy and he's just now starting to realize he's out of practice.

"I don't," Thor says, a breath, a whisper, a plea if Loki's listening carefully enough. He doesn't want to trap Loki here, but he can't stand the thought of Loki believing he's unwanted. "It's not that, truly."

Loki turns his hand palm-up in his lap, and the blood roars in Thor's ears. The scent of rust almost touches his senses. He wasn't entirely lying to Loki about the claustrophobia. It's just a little bit _worse_ when Loki's around, when Thor has to struggle not just with the memory of a floating sardine can but also the weight of _I love you_ , and how viciously it fights to get out.

The bones of Loki's fingers feel extraordinarily real as he tentatively slides his between them.

"Then what," Loki says quietly, and it's not really a question but it pulls at Thor's lungs anyway, and he has to study the rug for a moment because his good eye is stinging.

He tightens his grip on Loki's hand before Loki can pull away. It almost kills him to say the next part, but he knows they're the right words. "You don't have to stay if you don't want to."

"Obviously." Loki's fingers twitch against the back of Thor's hand, the ragged edge of a poorly bitten nail scraping Thor's skin. He has that look again, like he's thinking of something he isn't sure he should share. Maybe he can't. Maybe it's not the sort of thing he could explain even with his many, college-level words.

"I don't think I can tell you," Thor finally says, a little desperately. "I'm still pretending it isn't real."

Loki kisses him.

He goes in fast, like he's left very little time between deciding to act and actually going through with it, catching the corner of Thor's mouth in his haste. Thor starts, turning instinctively toward him, and Loki kisses him in full, pushing him into the mattress with a single insistent shove.

He stops with his hand on his chest and his hair sheltering them from Hela's room, black waves brushing Thor's temples. His nose almost touches Thor's, and when he speaks, the words tumble out in a rush and Thor thinks, he's finally found them. For both of them.

"If you're going to kick me out, do it now, right fucking now, Thor, because I can't take—"

Thor grabs him by the back of the neck and kisses him. He knows there's a lot that needs to be dissected here, picked apart when he returns to the sanctity of his couch and Loki remembers he's supposed to be sulking, but not at the moment. Not when Loki's mouth is warm and his hips flow so seamlessly into the curve Thor's been tracing in his mind for so long.

He holds Loki there, one hand on his neck and one on his lower back, and Loki doesn't seem to mind. He crushes his body against Thor's, winding an arm under Thor's head, cushioned by the mattress.

_I love you._

Thor almost says it, whispers it against Loki's lips or presses it into the curve of his neck, or trails it down his chest as if the words could grow flesh where Loki so badly needs it. He loves Loki, he's loved Loki since he reached across the gap between their twin beds to make sure Loki hadn't vanished in the night, he's loved Loki since before that, since Father brought Loki home and Thor was allowed to hold him first, before even Mother.

He holds Loki now, but it's different. Naturally. Things change when you get older—they shift and warp and sometimes get lost, like Thor's eye and Loki's sense of purpose, and maybe they'll find some of the lost things in the mess of junk in Bestefar's attic, but not all. Never all.

Thor's going to turn this room into something else, he decides, just before he lets Loki's fingers and hips and short, reverent breath drive everything from his head. He's going to make it over new, into a place they both can belong.

He pushes his hand under Loki's shirt, along the ridges of his spine, and Loki pulls back. He frees one hand to pinch Thor's face, thumb digging into his cheek.

"No?" Thor swallows the rasp in his voice and tries again. "Did I do something wrong?"

"You—" Loki loses the sentence in an unusually light-hearted laugh, bending his head over Thor's chest. "No. Not even a little. Did I?"

Thor shifts, propping himself up on his elbows. "Absolutely not."

"Good." Loki rolls off him, straightening his shirt and combing his fingers through his hair. His casual act is borderline insulting. "That's good. That's . . . okay."

Thor reaches for him, but Loki's already standing, and he lets his hand fall on the mattress instead.

"I need a minute," Loki says, and disappears back into the other room.

 _Okay,_ Thor thinks, stretching back out. The ceiling has tiny, diagonal gashes from things Hela threw at it. _Okay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*confused author voice* welp . . . here we are? Thanks a million to everyone who's read this far, even if you're sitting on the other side of the screen, scratching your head in confusion. Writing about the act of falling in love is fiddly, so I fall back on the trope of "they were always in love" way too often. Lazy writing! I'll try harder next time. It'd be interesting to see a reluctant Thor and resentful Loki grow into a true relationship._


	8. Chapter 8

The nightmare is bad that night, or maybe Thor's just ill-equipped to deal with it right now.

He wanders corridor after corridor on the rig, nose poisoned with the stench of brine and rust and unwashed humans in close quarters. He has two eyes again, even though he never saw the rig this way. His mind fills in the gaps. Everything is much smaller than it was, and he has to crouch just far enough to be uncomfortable as he walks, the steel plates creaking under his heavy workboots.

They're so heavy. They might punch holes in the floor, and then he'll drown.

He can sense the water underneath, separated only by that thin, metal plate. In real life, there are compartments and sub-compartments and flood chambers between the crew decks and the ocean, but not in the nightmare. In the nightmare, everything is close.

His neck hurts. He can barely smell. And the steady _creak-creak-creak_ threatens to drive him insane. The corridor gets narrower and narrower, and he has to stoop, stoop, stoop, finally dropping to his knees to a crawl. The lights dim.

He's deeper in the rig, now, toward the bowels that are usually off-limits to everyone except the engineers. He has a fleeting memory of Banner before remembering, in the dream way, that Banner departed for another vessel months ago and they have no engineer. No. Thor's the engineer, and he has to get to the heart of the rig or they're all going to drown.

His knee breaks through the floor as he crawls, and he has to push forward quickly to avoid being dragged down into the water. His knee is soaked. There's a hole in the rig. He has to get to the heart before it sinks.

Water begins to fill the corridor, which is little more than a narrow tunnel. He goes and goes and goes until he can't go any longer, stuck. Shoulders pressed against steel. Water creeping up his motionless body.

He wakes up in a cold sweat.

There's a murky figure at the foot of the couch, barely there in the darkness. Hopefully it's Loki. His hand is pale and ghostly as he touches Thor's ankle.

"Come to bed," he says, quiet and rough and like he's not going to take no for an answer.

Thor sits up, and tries anyway. "That wouldn't be a good idea."

"What are you going to do, murder me?" Loki sounds like he's smiling.

"You don't know what you're asking." Thor passes a hand over his face, tired and scared and wishing they didn't have to deal with it _right fucking now_ , that Loki would slip back upstairs and let Thor pretend to sleep a little longer.

He shuffles closer instead, and the darkness moves, and Thor realizes Loki is holding out his hand.

"I'm asking for you," he says.

Thor takes his hand—soft skin stretched over hollow bones—and lets his ersatz brother lead him upstairs.

_Okay._

It's so damn quiet. The fourth stair up creaks the way it always does, and the futon gives a little _chuff_ of released air when Loki drops onto it, and a louder _chuff-squeak_ of released air and strained bed frame when Thor follows him, but still. His heart slams against his ribs like a prisoner pounding on a locked door.

He normally sleeps on his back, but tonight he curls on his side, facing the soft outline of Loki's profile. Waiting for him to fade into the shadows and never reappear.

Loki takes his hand, solid and reassuring and just a little too tight. "Do you think I don't know?"

He could be talking about anything, so Thor doesn't humor him, just rests his forehead against Loki's shoulder and waits for sleep. When it comes, dreamless and still, it's as much a blessing as Loki's hand in his hair, soothing him into unconsciousness.

He thinks he senses Loki bend over him, brush against his temple in a soft feeling not unlike a kiss, but maybe that part is a dream.

He burrows closer regardless, and tells the nightmare to go screw itself.

* * *

Farm work isn't known for taking holidays, but Thor's let off early on Wednesday because it's Hedda's birthday and her nephew wants him to clear out before the party. Thor isn't offended—he's had more than enough of family gatherings to last a lifetime. And he gets to be home before noon, surprising Loki with lunch from the diner.

The way Loki's eyes light up, betraying the schooled set of his mouth as he tries to scold Thor for not calling ahead, lights bonfires in his belly. It's all he can do not to close the unimaginable distance between them right there, but he's trying to behave. He's trying not to take anything for granted.

They eat off disposable plates because neither of them feel like bothering with dishes, and they talk around the elephant in the room with practiced grace. Thor's not sure he knows _how_ to talk to Loki if one or both of them aren't avoiding an uncomfortable topic.

He's just clearing the table when the phone rings and Loki, in a show of unprecedented speed, dashes to answer it before Thor can. The combined strangeness of this and someone trying to contact them via _landline_ sets off an alarm in Thor's head, and while he'd usually leave contact with the outside world in Loki's capable hands, he finds himself turning to note Loki's expression as he picks up the handset.

"Yes?" Loki says, with unnecessary attitude. No _hello_. No _Gautrssen residence, who might be calling?_ His face is stony, jaw set.

Thor pretends to be wiping the table down.

"Not really, no." Loki shifts, turning his back on Thor and clearly attempting to be casual in a way that isn't casual at all. Thor glances at him, momentarily distracted by the tilt of his hip against the wall. "We just finished lunch. Yes. Well, usually."

His answers are deliberately vague. Because that isn't suspicious at all.

"He what?" Loki stiffens, head jerking up. "No."

Thor leans on the kitchen table, not bothering to hide his eavesdropping any longer. It would be politer for him to duck out, but polite won't get him answers.

Loki shoots him an irritated look and turns to the wall, elbow jammed between it and his body, and murmurs, not quietly enough, "Don't. I can handle it."

He hangs up. The four-second delay between this action and him turning around screams volumes.

"You can handle what?" Thor asks, because he's always been terrible at beating around the bush.

Loki faces him. "Just a few loose ends from university."

"Loki—"

" It’s nothing ." Loki drums his fingers on his thigh, eyes bright and determined. "We haven't been down to the beach since coming back. I've missed it."

"Loki—"

"And then I want to do something," Loki goes on, as if not hearing Thor at all, "anything, really. Anything that isn't renovating this blasted house or shopping for food. We used to have fun doing _things_."

Thor grapples with the concept of _things_ , a war breaking out between his desire to pry answers out of Loki and his suspicion that this could count as a _date_.

"Do I need to be worried?" he finally asks. "You would—if it was something serious, you would tell me, right?"

They both know the answer is no.

Loki shuffles over and touches Thor's face, fingertips catching on his short beard, thumb pressed to his lower lip. Thor reacts instinctively, hands curving around Loki's hips to tug him closer. Loki looks him in the face for a long moment. Whatever it is, whatever he's thinking, Thor can't guess.

Then Loki kisses him, and Thor stops trying to figure it out.

"I'm allowed to have secrets, too," Loki says an eternity later, pulling back with a flushed face and mussed hair.

Thor leans in, hiding his face in Loki's collarbone. He still can't wrap his mind around the part where this is _allowed_ , where he can let his fingers skate the hem of Loki's shirt, and if the trade off is not asking too many questions about it, well. He'll try.

Before he knows it, Wednesday is gone and Thursday is dawning while he helps clean up the remnants of Hedda's party, and Thursday bleeds into Friday to the song of Loki curling into Thor's back as he sleeps, arms winding around Thor's stomach in an undeniable gesture of affection.

And it seems like everything is good.

Saturday night they argue about radishes and Thor dances with Loki in the living room, or really, Thor dances and Loki grudgingly lets him spin them once before reclaiming his spot on the back of the sofa, where he's deeply invested in judging Thor for every move. But when Thor goes to pull him back, Loki stops him, thin fingers tracing the lines of Thor's chest, and presses their mouths together.

Thor braces his arms on the back of the couch. Kissing Loki always feels like being given a stolen lottery ticket or unusually positive peer review. He drinks in the good fortune while it lasts, sighing when Loki gently pushes him back.

"I'm going to—I have to go somewhere," Loki says, fingers hooked in Thor's strained waistband to keep him close. "It can't be helped. I'll be back on Thursday."

Thor inclines his head, forehead brushing Loki's as he takes this in. He wants to gather Loki in his arms and squeeze the life out of him, or at least all desire to leave. But Loki said he'd be back, and Thor might think about him more than he assumed was humanly possible but he still doesn't want to be the thing trapping Loki here.

He brings one hand up, tangling it in Loki's hair. "When are you leaving?"

"Monday." Loki's eyes close at the touch, and the contented look on his face almost does Thor in.

"You'll need the truck?"

"I have a rental. Don't worry." Loki's hands migrate from Thor's waistband to his hips, then down into the back pockets of his jeans. He pulls Thor closer, and Thor has to rest a knee on the couch cushion to keep from toppling. "You'll still be here when I come back?"

His tone is teasing, but there's something truthful hidden behind his wryness, and Thor catches a flash of it before Loki brings them together again. He pictures, suddenly, Loki coming home from college the year Thor left—the year Thor left _without telling him—_ and he's such a fucking idiot.

He knows why his calls went unanswered.

He catches Loki's face in both hands, no longer concerned with scaring him away, not in this immediate second. "Yes. _Yes_. I'll be here."

Loki looks like he's trying not to laugh, but in the way people do when they're embarrassed. "Thor, you don't have to—"

Thor slides him off the back of the couch, sitting down in the same movement so he ends up half-laying across the couch, Loki on top of him.

Loki flushes all the way down the neck of his shirt, which is more endearing than he'll ever know. He struggles to get up, knees failing him, elbows digging into Thor's sides. "I—come on, Thor, you're—"

Thor grabs him by the back of the neck, and he stills. Thor waits until he's looked up, green eyes bright and panicked and hopeful all in the same glint, before speaking again.

"I am not going anywhere," he says, slowly and clearly. He might be stressed and confused and still haunted by Hela and the rig and the knowledge that he loves his adopted brother more than he has ever or will ever love anyone else, but in this, he's rock steady. "I will be right here, exactly where you left me. I swear."

Loki surges forward without warning, kissing Thor hard enough that their teeth knock together, and Thor takes it, steadies them on the couch, cups Loki's cheek in his free hand and swallows the blood Loki accidentally drew. Loki's hand fight with the buttons of his shirt, with his jeans, with every scrap of skin he can find, and Thor's breath hitches in his throat.

There's a lot he still doesn't understand, but this is clearer to him than anything, that they've both been lonelier than two people in mutual obsession have any right to be.

He pushes Loki away from him for a second, just long enough to say, "I'll call."

Loki slips his shirt over his head, all pale skin and spindly bones. He doesn't say he'll answer, but Thor trusts he will. His palms on Thor's stomach and his mouth in Thor's hair promise that he will.

They've never gotten this far, but Thor doesn't spoil the moment by asking when they're going to stop. He takes what Loki's willing to give him, and it's good, it's good, it ruins him for any other goodness and he's not so sure he won't trap Loki here after all.

He wants to bind Loki up in this house and never set him free, and he wants Loki to crave the vines that twist around Thor's throat in his dreams and he wants claustrophobia to feel like the purest kind of love because he loves Loki so damn much that he thinks it's not truly the rig that _the nightmare_ is about.

"But come back," he breathes against Loki's throat, his cheek, his ear, "for God's sake, _come back_."

"I always do." Loki kisses his forehead, winning the battle with Thor's belt buckle, deft fingers winding under the waistband. His hand curls around Thor's cock and the world stops, starts again, and implodes.

Loki kisses him, and kisses him, and he's coming back so Thor isn't going to worry about him leaving in the first place. He comes under Loki's hands, shuddering and digging his fingers in Loki's back and thinking _too thin, please eat,_ and there isn't enough of him but somehow he's still too much.

They sleep tangled and hot and Thor fantasizing about the day Loki will let him return the favor, and on Sunday they go to the beach. Loki holds his hand, and the smell of rain rolls over the horizon with the salt spray, humid and cold in the same breeze.

Thor knows the ozone scent of a coming storm, but he still neglects to tell Loki until the thunderheads cross the sun tips Loki off in his place. They barely make it to the car before the storm hits, and it's this Thor holds on to when Loki leaves—the rain, the chill of the air conditioner, and the clutch of Loki's fingers around his when they kiss.

_I love you,_ he thinks, and it's like lightning crackling in the distance. He won't be able to ignore it forever. But he can ignore it for now, and hold on to the promises they've made in lieu of an actual relationship, and it's not exactly what he wants but it's better than he ever thought he'd get.

He holds on to the scent of ozone and Loki's cologne, even when the salt spray and rusting metal tries to creep back in. He sleeps with Loki's pillow crushed in his arms and tries not to worry and it's fine.

It's _fine_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Wow, look at me, throwing up a Sunday update after . . . you know, I don't want to look at when I last updated this thing. I suspect I will be disappointed in myself. I have no excuse. This chapter was fully written and edited, no reason for it to be gathering dust on my laptop. Welp. If you're coming around to check out the new chap, thanks! I appreciate the second (third? fourth?) chance!_


End file.
